The Alexandrite

by Rick Lenz

  “No. You don’t want to waste your life staring at an empty screen.”

  “There’s no talking, but I like the fuzzy silence. Sometimes I watch this program for hours.”

  “How about working on your puzzle?”

  “I finished that.”

  There doesn’t seem to be any point in continuing this conversation. “Where’s Margaret?”

  “Margaret,” she repeats. “Margaret went back to bed.”

  I stare at her, absorbed in the fuzzy silence, and try to figure out something about her that’s niggling at the back of my composite mind, but nothing occurs to me, so I leave, put my tools away, and start up to Margaret’s room.

  At the top of the stairs, I stop and look back down the way I’ve come. I wonder if I’ve carried Richard Blake’s memories in my deepest unconscious all my life—and if I have, how many more people are in there? And have I ever been who I’ve thought I was? Or have I always been the distillation of a long, not necessarily genetic line of my forebears? And where would such seemingly random associations stop? I’m thinking the ghost in my machine may be way more complex than I ever dreamed. The notion of the many-worlds interpretation of quantum physics runs through my mind, then I jerk my head back and forth vehemently, which hurts my neck, and I feel as if I’ve brought on a headache.

  Margaret is sitting up in bed. In her lap is a small mahogany box. She closes it when she sees me and puts it on her bedside table. “Hello, Richard.” She looks tired.

  “How’re you feeling?” I kiss her on the forehead and sit down on the edge of the bed.

  “I have a headache.”

  “Me too.”

  She frowns. “Did you find what you were looking for?” She looks away.

  “No, I didn’t. But I’ll try again later.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “You got a phone call. You got two phone calls.” She makes the clicking sound with her mouth. “Both from a man named Jerry.”

  I feel my heart jump. I should have told the agent’s secretary I’d call when I got home. “Kennents?”

  “That’s it. Who is he?”

  I’m tempted to ask who she thinks he is, to see if Kennents has said anything about Bus Stop, but she makes it easy for me.

  “I asked him the second time if I could take a message, but he said he wanted to talk to you. Who is he?”

  “It’s just about work.”

  “He said he’d like you to sign agency contracts. Is that about work too?”

  “Yes.” I look her straight in the eye, but her gaze wanders away again. “I’d better call him back.”

  “I spoke to somebody else on the phone today.” It’s her most maddening tone of voice. “But I suppose you wouldn’t care to know who.”

  “Whatever you say. I’m going to return that call.” I aim a feeble smile in her direction. She looks away, and I seize the opportunity to leave.

  Kennents says he wants me as a client. We leave it that I will go by the office during my lunch hour the next day to sign agency contracts. Kennents’ advice to me for my meeting with Marilyn Monroe is to “just be yourself.”

  I don’t ask which one.

  I go to my bedroom, lie down, fall immediately asleep, and become a visitor in my host’s dream. I am flying, slowly, in a heroic Supermanish pose, with Margaret and Lily over an immense, motionless landscape, surrounded by sand and brush flats and creosote bushes and the bones of sheep in a limitless sweep of total erosion. It is dead silent, without even the screech of a hawk to break it.

  I look at Margaret’s and Lily’s faces and now, it’s no longer Richard’s dream. It’s Jack’s, or at least partly, because the faces have become the faces of everyone I have ever known, all in a tumble, and seemingly it all happens at once, as if I’m seeing every face I’ve ever stopped to focus on.

  And now I’m sitting in a small room. In a straight-back chair, right next to me, is the little girl I gave the perfume to in the seventh grade. Her back is to me.

  She turns, and I see that she’s matured and is now a beautiful young woman. But I can’t make out for sure who she is.

  She smiles to put me at ease. “It’s okay,” she says. “Don’t be afraid. There is nothing in this world to be afraid of.”

  “But who are you?”

  “Oh, nothing so unusual. Perfection, they tell me.” She shrugs and smiles. “The answer to all your hopes and dreams—nothing more than what you deserve.”

  And she’s gone.

  I hear the voice of Mr. Parsons of Jewels By Jaxon say, “Plato believed that precious stones were living beings. And this is an alexandrite. This could be your friend.” The voice becomes the scream of a hawk, and Lily and Margaret, once again on both sides of me, peel off like jets at an air show, and I realize it’s only me now. I am traveling by myself.

  Then I realize the scream I’ve heard was not a hawk, it was me, and that I’m standing in the dark at the top of the stairway at 1833 Shoemaker Drive.

  I wake up.

  Lily is knocking at the door. “It’s time for dinner, Richard.”

  I’ve slept for over two hours. “Thanks, I’ll be right down.”

  “Are you all right, Richard?”

  “Yes, I just had a little nightmare.”

  I hear her move away from the door.

  As I rub at my eyes, trying to wake up, I feel the alexandrite on my right ring finger and think about Marilyn. She was born on June first. Her birthstone is alexandrite.

  I didn’t know that the day before yesterday.

  The Blakes don’t eat very well, although Richard seems to think everything is all right.

  We have overcooked canned string beans, Spam with salt and pepper, and some kind of packaged macaroni product that tastes like it’s been laced with Limburger cheese.

  After dinner, I do the dishes, then join Margaret and Lily in the library where they’re watching a special news program about a platoon sergeant who’s been found guilty of negligence in the drowning of six marines at Paris Island in South Carolina several weeks ago. There are interviews with the families of the men. The mother of one says, “We just hope nothing like this could ever happen to anybody else.”

  The TV is a Zenith console model, boxy and solid-looking, in an oak cabinet. The picture is black and white, of course. I keep starting to reach for the remote. Fleetingly, I think of taping the show and watching it later, then chuckle to myself, which produces an odd look from Margaret.

  There is a piece about preparations for the marriage next week in Monaco between Prince Rainier and Grace Kelly. I think about the three children she will have, and how she will be America’s princess until the car crash that kills her in 1982.

  “It makes me sad.”

  “Why?” says Margaret.

  “I don’t know. They’re just so goddamn frail. Like everyone else.”

  Lily barks, “I’m watching the show!”

  Margaret watches me for a long time. I can feel it as I look at the television. Finally, she says, “Would you get me another gin and tonic, Richard?”

  I get up, fix her drink, and pour myself a double Dewars. It’s my third one of the evening. Richard Blake is thirsty. He’s thinking maybe he’ll tell Margaret about his acting job and how he’s no longer the same man he was two days ago. I try to convince him that’s a bad idea, but I don’t think he’s heard me.

  We watch Dragnet (Jack Webb looks too young to be Joe Friday) then Four Star Playhouse. Ida Lupino is a woman stranded on an island in a lighthouse with a crazy man while a ship that has no people on it floats into the island, and rats from that ship eat through the door of the lighthouse and then slowly corner Ida Lupino and the crazy man on the top level. Finally, Ida Lupino goes crazy too.

  Margaret watches with split focus between the television and me, and Lily laughs maniacally at the scary parts.

  When the late news is over, Margaret gets up to go to bed. “Were you going to say something to me, Richa
rd?”

  “I was thinking about it.”

  “What were you going to say?”

  “I wanted to tell you …” I stop myself from saying I’m sorry. “… Maybe we should … unh … talk about it later, when things are more … settled.”

  She studies me, then looks away. “More settled. Yes. When things are more settled. Good night, Richard.” She turns and walks toward the front stairs.

  Watching her leave, I have a craving for another drink. I pour just a splash. I need to be sharp tomorrow.

  I sit down in my chair in front of the television.

  Lily is watching snow again. I look at it with her.

  After a few minutes, she says, “You’re drinking whiskey.” She looks at the television, then back at me, then at the television again. “Frisky whiskey.” She chants it: “Frisky whiskey. Frisky whiskey. Frisky whiskey. Frisky whiskey.”

  “Lily, do you know that I’m afraid? I don’t show it, do I?” It doesn’t seem to register on her at all. “I might as well be alone.”

  “I’m here, Richard.”

  I get up and make another drink. Jack thinks we should quit for the night, but Richard will not accept no for an answer.

  I sit down again and Lily repeats, “I’m here, Richard.”

  “I know you are. I know you are.” I stare at her. “But who are you, Lily?”

  Lily smiles, again chanting, “Frisky whiskey …”

  She gets up and goes upstairs.

  I turn off the television and the lights, check the doors to be sure they are locked, and go upstairs to my bedroom.

  I brush my teeth, get undressed, put on my pajamas and robe, and turn off the bedroom light.

  I walk quietly to Lily’s room and let myself in.

  Lily gets to her knees on the bed. She’s naked. Even though I can only make her out by the glow of a half moon through the window, there is no way I could take my eyes off her. She stretches her arms out toward me.

  “Richard? Come to me, Richard. Come to me.”

  9

  THURSDAY, APRIL 12, 1956

  My eyelids are heavy, but Richard never allows himself to go to sleep in Lily’s room.

  He lifts his legs off the side of the bed, bends over for his pajama bottoms and slips them on. Lily is turned away from me, snoring lightly. I am putting on the top, buttoning it, when I hear Margaret.

  “Richard? Richard?”

  I want to hide but can’t imagine where.

  Lily is not waking up.

  Margaret calls again. “Richard …?”

  I put on the robe and slip out of the room.

  I take a step toward the top of the stairs, then stop and contemplate going the other way. I could get into my own bed and pretend I haven’t heard Margaret’s call. I look toward my room.

  The door is open. I know I locked it.

  It hits me in the pit of my stomach: Margaret has a key.

  My pulse is pounding. I look back toward the top of the stairs and, with an almost physical revulsion, feel myself drawn to it. I move carefully, as if approaching the precipice of the highest, sheerest cliff, and at the bottom, it’s exactly as in the dream. The light from the living room shines through the passageway like a beacon repelling, beckoning, and I clench my fists. I descend the stairs toward it and continue through the foyer, into the passageway, and I am cold, and I am drenched with sweat, and I walk into the light.

  Margaret sits waiting for me in the rocking chair that is most often used by Lily.

  I speak first, in the most natural tone I can manage, “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in bed?”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “I’m sorry.” I move closer and notice the eight-day mariner clock on the mantle behind her. It is exactly three in the morning.

  “You’re perspiring, Richard. Do you have a fever?” She says it flatly without any note of commiseration.

  “No, I’m … I’m fine. I’m sorry you can’t sleep.”

  “You’re always sorry, Richard. More and more lately, you’re apologetic. Why?” She looks away.

  I see that the mahogany box from her room is in her lap. Her hands are loosely clasped together, resting on it.

  She looks at me again, then drifts away as if I’m not there. “When my father was away, he would write me wonderful, gentle letters. He would begin them ‘To my Best Beloved—do you see?’”

  I’m still waiting, heart thumping. “It’s late. You should go up to bed.”

  Her eyes meet mine again, and this time they remain focused on me. She makes her clicking sound, but softly. “Knowing her, did you think she wouldn’t tell me? Knowing my sister, what did you think? Did you think there was any way in the world she would not tell me?”

  Her hands touch the mahogany box. I’m fascinated.

  Margaret takes a small revolver out of the box. Richard has never seen it before.

  She aims it at me.

  “Goodbye, best beloved.”

  She pulls the trigger.

  “Do you see?”

  10

  I see Mr. Parsons from the jewelry store leaning very close to me, speaking in his high-alto voice: “The changes in hue are due to the delicate balance maintained in the absorption color; a change in the color of the light transmitted is all it takes to produce a change in the color of the stone.”

  Now, the old jeweler says, “If I were you, I’d try to figure out where it came from.”

  I know what I have to do. I have to get up and drive down to Morgan’s Gifts.

  “Open your eyes, love.”

  FRIDAY, OCTOBER 11, 1996

  Maggie Partridge is bent over, her hands on her knees, looking directly at me.

  “Jack, are you all right?”

  “What time is it?”

  “Three forty-five.”

  “What day?”

  “It’s Friday. It’s still Friday.”

  I stand up, feeling surprisingly steady on my feet.

  I move to the front window and look across the large, well-cared-for lawn at my Jaguar out on the street. I turn back to Maggie Partridge, still standing by the flowered sofa. “I don’t remember lying down there.” My eyes find the portrait of the golden-haired woman on the wall. I point to it, but now have trouble finding my voice. Finally, I groan in primal tones that seem to rumble out of me like Othello over Desdemona’s body: “She’s back there. Her name is—” I see the alexandrite on my right ring finger. “Look at that.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Her name is Lily.”

  Maggie Partridge frowns and moves directly to me, reaches up and squeezes the back of my neck. Very quietly, but with commanding intensity, she says, “We did it. You became Richard Blake. You are Richard Blake. And Jack Cade.” She takes her hand from the nape of my neck and looks even deeper into my eyes. “What happened?”

  I walk, now not steady at all, to the passageway into the foyer. I turn back and look at the spot where Margaret sat in the wooden rocker. I hear my words once again coming from someone else’s mouth: “I was murdered … I …”

  “I know. Tell me.”

  “I came down the stairs from …” I point toward the foyer. “I came down the stairs …” I stare at her. “You know?” I replay what she just said. “How do you know?”

  She looks down.

  “How do you know?” My words come out hoarsely. I’m trembling.

  “Old newspapers, microfilm, the library,” she says quietly. “Why did she kill you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I remember the sound of Margaret’s gun being fired, a searing pain in my chest. “I’d been alive. I touched things. I saw, I smelled. It hurt when I was shot.”

  Maggie Partridge runs to me, takes my hand and leads me to the sofa. She sits beside me and speaks quietly. She holds my hand in both of hers. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

  “What happened to Margaret?” I say.

  She gently withdraws her hands, avoiding my look. “
She killed herself.”

  “And Lily?”

  “She died in a mental home.”

  “You knew I’d be killed, didn’t you?”

  “You might not have gone back if I’d told you.”

  “How could you do that?” I get up, livid, but my legs dissolve under me, and I buckle to the carpet.

  “Jack?”

  “I’m okay.” I brace myself against the sofa with one hand and get to my feet. “I’m only a little … lightheaded.”

  She stands, facing me. I take her in as if I’ve never seen her before. I try to clear my head. “I’m going home now.” I bolt, weaving, toward the front door.

  She calls after me, “Please give me five more minutes.”

  As I enter the foyer, I glance up at the top of the stairs to the second floor. I can see the victim coming down the preordained path to his murder.

  I turn back toward the living room. She’s right behind me, waiting to hear whatever I have to say.

  “I need something to eat.”

  We sit near the window against the back wall, at the table farthest from the front entrance in Dick’s Gas and Hot Food. I’m having a piece of cherry pie and Maggie Partridge is sipping coffee.

  After I’ve gulped down most of the pie, ravenous, Maggie says, “You still think you’re dreaming, don’t you?”

  “I came out here because you asked me to.” I finish the pie, nauseous, draw breath. “Why? What are you doing? What do you want?” I know she won’t answer me. “Of course I was dreaming … but in the last part of that dream, I was … sleeping with Lily. We were having an affair. I’m not sure for how long. I think Richard Blake was ashamed of it.”

  “Why was he ashamed?”

  “Why? Why? Well, for one thing, she was mentally impaired—or some kind of … I don’t know. She’s a lot smarter than you would think. I saw her putting together a very intricate picture puzzle.”

  I look out the window at a white wood-frame house with a flat gravel roof. A big sign next to the front door advertises Chiropractor & Beautician. An elderly woman walks slowly up the steps to see one or the other or both. My gaze wanders to Maggie’s long, athletic arms and the line of her breasts beneath her blouse.